


Never Out Of Reach

by SilverLynxx



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Insecure Phillip Carlyle, Kissing, M/M, Neck Kissing, Post-Canon, Protective P. T. Barnum, Romantic Fluff, Sexual Tension, Sexual implications
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 05:29:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16848040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverLynxx/pseuds/SilverLynxx
Summary: That had happened. In public.At the Winthrop’s annual gala. In front of every aristocratic family within fifty miles of New York.





	Never Out Of Reach

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic has pretty much been in development for just shy of five months following its off-the-cuff rambling pitch in The Other Side TGS discord server. It's only taken so long because I'm fickle and cannot be controlled. I also sulk a lot \o/
> 
> There is no mature sexual content ~~shockhorror~~ , only a passionate make-out session that doesn't extend below the neck and some rumours/implications of sexual exploits - which may or may not be true, you decide.
> 
> If you haven't heard of bundling boards or chastity bags, I highly recommend skimming [[this article]](https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/the-awkward-17thcentury-dating-practice-that-saw-teens-get-bundled-into-bags) because not only is it just vastly amusing to learn, but it gives you more context for the utterly frivolous pissing-about that happens towards the end. 
> 
> Lastly, big thank you to [@Schizanthus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schizanthus) for beta-ing even as I chased her through the google doc while insisting there was no rush. You put up with a lot. I'm very sorry.

“Phillip? Phillip, are you ready yet?”

It’s with obstinate resolve that Phillip ignores the ringmaster’s latest call, just as exasperating as the last three, and can’t quite suppress his beseeching glance upwards, as if hoping a higher power could grant him a moment’s peace. It’s an action that would have had the knuckles of his younger self rapped for insolence, but Barnum always had a knack for wearying even Phillip’s most disciplined habits.

He catches Anne’s smirk from where she lounges on the edge of the dresser he’d appropriated, svelte and poised with the grace of an oriental cat.

He pointedly ignores it, and instead finishes the final twist in his bowtie in silence before folding down his stiffly pressed collar. Giving his appearance a final inspection in the mirror, he at last turns to Anne for her approval.

At that moment, Barnum’s head pokes around the dressing room door.

“Phillip, while I appreciate this immoderate consideration for your appearance, our brougham is waiting, and the grisly fellow is adding more dimes to our fare than I care to count.”

The resonant voice, suffused with an uncharacteristically harried note, gives Phillip pause. He subjects Barnum to a critical once-over as the man idles in the doorway, cutting an imposing and undeniably handsome figure in his white tie attire. His shoes are polished to a shine, his trousers - fitted snugly to his waist and thighs - exaggerate the length of his already impossibly long legs, and the tailored suit with its double-breasted waistcoat easily accentuates Barnum’s solid build and broad shoulders to levels of indecency.

He hasn’t seen Barnum dressed so impeccably since their audience with the queen, and he finds his mind suddenly blank of any witticisms he had prepared for the man’s inevitable intrusion.

Despite the captious attention on him, Barnum continues to shift from foot to foot, his hands tugging at the hem of his jacket until Phillip makes a reproachful sound in his throat, compelling Barnum to cease the action with a sullen expression.

He’s used to the man brimming with motion, zeal to enact his next scheme nipping at his heels with Phillip’s voice of reason not far behind it, but there’s a disquiet to his usual impatience, enough to prompt Phillip’s gracious compliance. The pause, which Barnum seems to thankfully not notice, also gives Phillip time to formulate a suitably dry retort.

“If only one of my better habits brushed off on you, it wouldn’t hurt for it to be this one.” Rather than wait for Barnum’s comeback, Phillip steps back from the dresser and spreads his arms in theatrical presentation. “How do I look?”

“Absolutely ravishing,” Barnum affirms without missing a beat.

Phillip’s lips twitch with an encroaching smile as the man’s teasing incites Anne’s laughter. It’s a sweet and disarming sound, indicative of her ease in their company, and coupled with Barnum’s mere presence, which permeated any space he inhabited and scintillated across the skin with tangible vivacity, it had a comforting feeling of _home ._

Yet, as loath as he was to leave it, they did have an engagement to attend.

Draping a silk scarf around his neck to complete the ensemble, Phillip claims his top hat and cane from the dresser and finally relents to the ringmaster’s ushering.

“For the record, you don’t scrub up too bad yourself,” Phillip quips as he brushes past Barnum in the doorway, twirling his cane with a lightness to his step as Barnum’s humoured chuckle follows him. He turns back to see Barnum courteously tipping his hat to Anne and then striding towards him, meeting Phillip’s eye with a dramatic exhale and a put-upon grin.

He spots Anne over the ringmaster’s shoulder, coming to rest against the doorframe with her arms folded and wearing an unduly amused grin, just before Barnum’s hand presses to his lower back and guides him forward. They leave the backstage dressing rooms with Anne’s teasing “Have fun!” echoing after them, and Phillip chuckles quietly as Barnum mumbles a dour “Oh absolutely,” under his breath in response.

Dressed in their finest tailcoats and looking sorely out of place against the brazen gaudy backdrop of the circus tent, they cross the main arena towards the entrance where Phillip could see their impatient carriage waiting in the pink-hued evening light; the driver hunched in his seat against the crisp fall wind.

With a snap of the lock and a clack of hooves against cobbles, the carriage lurches forward, sending them both tumbling back into their seats.

“Courtesy is still alive and well, I see,” Barnum grumbles as they arrange themselves more comfortably, the carriage now lumbering down the street at a steadier pace.

“Behave,” Phillip admonishes, applying a corrective elbow to Barnum’s side when the elder man sticks out his tongue at the back of their driver’s head. He doesn’t grace Barnum with anything more than an impassive look when the elder turns an exaggerated expression of innocence on him, raised eyebrows and all.

Shaking his head, Phillip settles back to watch the city streets give way to small suburban homes and then rolling countryside. His knee knocks gently against Barnum’s with the sway of the carriage on the uneven roads, and he listens with indulgent attention as the man animatedly recounts his chance meeting with a ventriloquist earlier in the week.

“-and he had the most beautifully carved dummy. Fantastic craftsmanship, the mouth even moved! It was marvellous, a perfect illusion.”  
  
“Absolutely not.” Phillip shoots back, and Barnum huffs.

“Ventriloquism is an admirable skill with solid entertainment value. It’s an ancient and noble art that people are remembered for; Eurycles, Louis Brabant-”  
  
“A ventriloquist would hardly be a suitable addition to our roster, besides, the dummies are creepy, so _no.”_

Barnum falls quiet, and Phillip knows the man would protest if he were to accuse him of sulking, so he lets their journey progress for a good quarter-mile in trundling silence before he heaves a sigh.

“That said, should this ventriloquist still be in the area, I would perhaps be inclined to witness this act for myself. Keeping in mind, you have severely raised my expectations.”

He doesn’t have to look at Barnum to know the man is smirking at him.

“Trying to get back into my good graces so soon?” he questions with a sly tone. Phillip’s lips  curl at the edges.

“You say that as if it’s difficult.”

He reclines more leisurely in his seat with a satisfied grin when Barnum throws his head back with a deep, genuine laugh, proving his point.

 

~*~*~

 

It’s dark when they reach the sprawling Winthrop estate and fall in line with the other carriages rolling up the expansive drive. The glow of lights at the top of the hill draws Phillip’s eye, and he feels the warm press of Barnum against his side as his friend leans over to peer out the window. Barnum’s long low whistle fills the quiet carriage as they lay eyes on what could only be described as the leviathan of estate homes. 

“Sakes, and I thought I was excessive,” Barnum mutters, slipping on his white kidskin gloves as Phillip does the same.

“You are, the Winthrops are just absurdly rich on top of it,” Phillip replies. “Very old money. They were practically untouched by the war, and it’s rumoured they lined a few high-governing pockets to keep it that way.”

Barnum hums thoughtfully, eyes scanning the dozen carriages and countless attendees bedecked in their finest white tie dress. “And this gala is really all it’s cracked up to be?”

Phillip snorts, another uncouth habit reserved especially for Barnum. “The Winthrop’s annual gala is _the_ most prestigious event of the year. If you had to choose between attending this gala and having dinner with the president, you’d still give considerable thought to the gala.”  
  
Barnum’s eyebrows inch up in disbelief. “Well then, we better make a good impression.”

Their brougham draws to a halt at the base of the towering stone perron, and Phillip rests a placating hand against Barnum’s bicep until a footman opens the carriage door for them. The ringmaster flashes Phillip a grin and skims his fingertips across the brim of his hat in a familiar manoeuvre, “Show time.”

Descending from the carriage and walking shoulder to shoulder, they’re quickly swept up in the flow of the crowd and into the foyer of the grand Winthrop House.

\---

Joining one of the several receiving lines, Phillip takes in the vast high-ceilinged reception hall. The walls glint white and ivory in the gaslight of a dozen sconces, and tall, unblemished candles flicker in decorative standing candelabras.

Despite being markedly absent from the guest list the last several years, it’s still a familiar sight, one he’d known since he was but a young man proud to accompany his parents to the revered gala. So it’s inevitable that his gaze, indifferent to the flagrant luxuriance, comes to rest on Barnum.

He follows the man’s fleeting attention around the room, Barnum’s focus shifting from person to person with an insatiable curiosity - and a glaring sense of estrangement. He ponders if it’s a lasting effect of Barnum’s upbringing, shaped by poverty and homelessness - a world away from where they stand now - or if it’s merely because they were never truly designed to fit here.

Nudging Barnum’s side, he draws the man’s attention to him and then redirects it with a nod of his head: “Henry and Eunice Beecher.” 

He recites the names and reputations of notable guests he spies in the crowd, amused when Barnum contributes his own commentary that has Phillip biting his cheek to stifle his laughter.

Finally able to shake the hand of the gentleman receiving them, they’re motioned towards the large parted doors at the far end of the room where guests, and footmen bearing large platters of hors d'oeuvres, come and go. 

The ariose chords of a string quartet provide an ambient background to the murmur of conversation as Phillip steps into the ballroom at Barnum’s side. He takes in the grandeur of the venue, from the tiered crystal chandeliers to the swaths of fabric hanging down from the upper-floor balconies to frame the marble columns and archways below. The room brims with men in the most finely tailored suits in New York, and women sweep across the floor in elaborate bustled ball gowns like blooms from a scattered bouquet.

It’s a fenestra into an antithetic existence; a conglomeration of wealth and privilege the likes of which Phillip had been bred for and subsequently lost touch with in his dalliance with the socially aberrant. And yet, looking across the room of stiff, asphyxiating collars and malforming bodices, of authentic glinting jewels and false tinkling laughter, he finds himself longing for the easy informality and warmth of the circus.

It’s a world completely at odds with the one he and Barnum immerse themselves in daily; running around in bright audacious costumes with oddities and outcasts, singing and dancing in defiance of society’s illiberal values. Yet even so, while they are clearly poor representations of the principles this class held so dear to them, Phillip figures they still have enough influence and financial standing to warrant an invitation to their most prestigious event of the year.

He feels more than sees Barnum shifting at his side, considering the room.

“Thoughts?” Phillip questions.

“Divide and conquer,” the showman returns in a conspiratorial undertone. “Reconvene at seven, before the meal. Have fun.” Phillip smiles and acknowledges the plan with a subtle nod.

With a flash of mischief in his eye, Barnum steps away and wades into the crowd until Phillip inevitably loses sight of him.

Now absent of Barnum holding the better share of his attention, Phillip becomes acutely aware of the attention he himself is drawing from the people around him. Men and women whispering behind their hands with, he is sure, one phrase on their lips. _That’s the Carlyles’ boy, from the circus._

The whispers carry like the hiss of serpents, so real and virulent he almost flinches from them. _‘Foolish’_ Phillip thinks chidingly, realising he hasn’t truly prepared himself to re-enter this gilded viper pit. 

Refusing to shy away, Phillip stands a little straighter, lifts his head a little higher, and fortifies himself with a genteel smile. It comes back with the familiarity of practice, a routine no different than donning his ringmaster’s coat, and once he’s cloaked himself in his own long-shed snakeskin, he descends the stairs to start his cruise through the various circles now open to him.

\---

As he moves seamlessly between company - discussing politics and economics and the latest journals with the gentlemen, engaging the accompanying ladies in the theories and practices of the arts, and ingratiating himself to both - Phillip finds it almost, in an inexplicable way, invigorating.

For all its masquerading as a social carousel, he knows this gala, like the many other balls and soirées taking place throughout the year, is little more than a sparring ring; a contest of wit, acuity and breeding. When his heart wasn’t heavy and saturated with alcohol, Phillip was generously equipped with all three. What’s new, however, is the measure of his own humility, a quality he owed to the unique individuals he now calls family.

When the word ‘circus’ begins to pass amidst his current party without derision, Phillip again takes his leave. “Morris, Edith, it was a pleasure to catch up after so long,” he enthuses, exchanging a firm handshake with the portly older gentleman, and pressing a kiss to his wife’s gloved knuckles. “I hope your business proceedings aren’t held up for much longer.”  
  
Morris Franklin guffaws. “They’ll drag their heels until there are ruts in the ground, but we’ll have them soon enough. They won’t have the means to evade a court order.” Phillip’s smile tightens in sympathy for the small family business that happened to fall foul of the politician turned insurance company president. “But do stop by the office when you’re in the area, Phillip, and we’ll run numbers. You seem to have quite the little operation going.

“I would appreciate the opportunity. Have a lovely evening,” Phillip concludes and parts from the couple, retreating to the shelter of the overhanging entresol.

Stepping away from the crowd to stand alongside the marble columns lining the room is like entering an isolated pocket in time. From his position he can survey the floor and, divorced from the clamour and conversation, he lets his strictly regulated posture slip.

“Seeking some respite?”

Phillip starts at the sudden address, turning to confront the unnoticed figure that joins him from beneath the mezzanine. He’s presented with a man only a few years his senior, tall and smart in a well-heeled suit, regarding him with deep hazel eyes beneath eyebrows quirked in cursory interest. A short, neatly maintained beard ornaments a square jaw and honey blond hair, swept back to fall in rakish waves, adds a youthful charm to the man’s mature face.

“Ed-”

“Edward Wallace,” Phillip interjects with esteem, and Wallace seems pleasantly surprised by the recognition.

You’ve heard of me.”  

“It would be remiss of me, otherwise,” Phillip assures. “I’m-”  
  
“Phillip Carlyle.” The man mirrors with a coltish grin. “You don’t seem surprised that I know you in turn,” Wallace observes as Phillip’s smile broadens in acknowledgement. 

“I accept I’m a somewhat known figure, not unlike yourself, although for vastly different reasons, I imagine. I hope you’ve not heard anything too unseemly before I’ve had a chance to make an impression in person.”

Wallace chuckles and, to Phillip’s surprise, offers him one of the two champagne flutes he’s holding. Phillip accepts the proffered glass and holds it to his lips, watching the man canvass him over the rim before taking a sip.

In truth, Phillip would have had to have been a half-wit not to recognise Edward Wallace, even from his peripheral position in high-class affairs. The man was an axiomatic trailblazer in business and stocks, an entrepreneur with the guile, looks, and capitol to show for it. The type of man who was readily welcomed into the circles Phillip’s own father operated, and who was afforded respect and attention by reputation alone.

It would be erroneous of Phillip not to give it to him.

“So, I’ve heard very interesting things about this…. circus.”  
  
Phillip grins.

\---

It’s without a doubt the most compelling conversation Phillip has encountered all evening, and topics flow between them without falter or pause. Wallace’s ability to propel discussion is effortless; with astutely placed questions and the shrewd insertion of anecdotes, Phillip is left genuinely entertained by Wallace’s tongue-in-cheek humour. It's charming and refreshing, warmly reminiscent of Barnum’s, and Wallace seems happy to indulge Phillip in whatever topic he chooses.

“I must admit, Dickens being your favourite author wouldn’t have been my first guess,” Wallace comments with an arched brow.

“I don’t believe it would be unconventional of me to say I regard certain pieces of his work more highly than others, but _David Copperfield_ is an exemplary paradigm of the craft. It’s written with a profound sincerity which lends itself to an earnest and personal accord with the characters. I was quite enamoured with it.”

Wallace makes a thoughtful noise, thumb smoothing over his beard in a subconscious, repetitive motion.

“The book broaches, some might argue, rather controversial topics. The ambiguous leanings of characters, for example. I assume such clandestine affairs didn’t phase you?”

Phillip laughs. “Controversy is unavoidable, especially when little excites a writer like the taboo. The stage can be rather permitting of more censored matters, so I wasn’t quite reaching for my pearls, I assure you.”

He’s so engrossed in their conversation that Phillip doesn’t immediately register the diminishing distance between them until their hands, holding their glasses in front of them, bump together. The flutes connect with a quiet but no less jarring sound, and Phillip barely refrains from jerking back to reestablish the lost space.

“I suppose I shouldn’t expect anything less, being a courter of controversy yourself,” Wallace chuckles, and finding no ridicule in the comment, Phillip easily concedes the point. “However, I am intrigued by your sympathy for Steerforth. Would you not agree his treatment of Copperfield was founded on exploitation and disreputable fancy?”

It’s only when Phillip needs to tilt his head back to meet the man’s eye he clocks how Wallace now stands over him to a nettlesome degree.

Despite this, Wallace’s expression remains attentive and expectant of Phillip’s response, and he gives no indication he’s even aware of their proximity. It takes Phillip no time at all to conclude that drawing attention to the matter would only bring about unnecessary awkwardness, so he brushes off his unrest and offers Wallace a smile, even as he tamps down the urge to lean back.  

“No man is without impurity. I am of the opinion that characters written as such are merely hollow vessels ferrying the blue sky virtues of immoral men.”

Wallace emits a short huff of laughter. “That’s a very strong opinion,” he remarks, and Phillip feels somewhat abashed but unapologetic of his frank statement. Nevertheless, Wallace’s amusement presses Phillip to make his point.

“Would I be wrong in saying the most engaging characters are those who are flawed?” Phillip challenges affably. Wallace doesn’t comment and simply gestures for Phillip to continue. “A man who is flawed is an honest reflection of ourselves. But a man who is also aware of his own shortcomings, and struggles with them as Steerforth does, holds more potential for redemption than a saintly effigy ever could. A penitent scoundrel stirs our compassion.”

Wallace nods, slow and pondering. “You’re very passionate about this. Tell me, were you dissatisfied by Steerforth’s end?”

Phillip pauses, considering the question. “I was… saddened, I suppose. Not that he met his end, in a way it was a death orchestrated by his own failings, but he was a seemingly brilliant man whose redemption eluded him because he lacked the discipline and responsibility to change.”

Swirling his flute, Phillip regards the golden-hued eddy within the glass that has him reminiscing of Steerforth’s death at sea. “It’s a tragedy, really…” Phillip concludes lightly, “that the innocence and sensitivity he revered in David wasn’t enough to redeem him. He found himself wanting but couldn’t grow. But who’s to say they couldn’t have bettered each other, had things worked out differently.”

He finally lifts his gaze again and finds himself pinned under an intensely scrutinising stare. The way Wallace’s eyes fixate on his mouth leaves Phillip flustered..

“Ed-”

“I was made aware you were well-versed,” Wallace interrupts, his voice suddenly a low, husky pitch. “But I could listen to you speak belles-lettres for hours. So much passion and yearning…” his voice trails, but Phillip doesn’t believe the man’s thoughts end there.

His mind turbid with uncertainty, Phillip clears his throat and haltingly tips his head in appreciation. “That’s very kind, thank you.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you are truly stunning? An exceptionally pretty boy, indeed,” Wallace hums, the intimacy of his tone rendering Phillip speechless.

Lips pressing into a firm line, Phillip says with quiet, unwavering indignation, “With respect, Mr Wallace, I am not a boy.”

Wallace’s gaze rakes down his body for nary a moment, but Phillip feels dirtied as the man meets his eye again with an almost absent murmur.

“No, no I bet you’re not.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not comfortable with this line of discussion.”

Wallace considers him for a moment, but appears neither concerned nor chastened by the rebuff.

Much to Phillip’s consternation, Wallace smiles. “You have quite the reputation, Mr Carlyle, and I am yet to be disappointed.”

Phillip sets his jaw even as his brow furrows sceptically, waiting for the man to elaborate. Wallace merely chuckles, voice still soft and allusive. “I am quite taken with your mouth, you know. Clever, articulate, _proficient..._ quite befitting a scandal, wouldn’t you say?” 

Phillip’s back stiffens at that word, the one that had bedevilled his reputation even before he’d gotten into bed, figuratively speaking, with Barnum.

Without thought his gaze darts across the crowded room and lands, almost instinctively, on his partner. The man stands several inches above the company he’s entertaining with a yarn and several zealous gestures, but he’s angled away from Phillip, oblivious to the desperate attempts to catch his eye.

The tide of guests between them swells and Phillip’s hope for assistance wavers as he eventually loses sight of Barnum. Feeling cut loose from his one lifeline, Phillip evaluates his options with growing apprehension. Barnum had no reason to seek him out and liberate him from what would appear to be a perfectly civil, perhaps even familiar exchange, and Wallace surely wouldn’t let Phillip excuse himself. To walk away would be improper - no, it would be social ruination - and it would be foolish to make himself vulnerable to whatever arsenal of blades Wallace had at his disposal to lance into his turned back.

Phillip’s attention reluctantly returns to Wallace, and the man seems to come to the same conclusion as Phillip as his smile gains a lecherous edge.

“There is rampant speculation that _David Copperfield_ is a veiled autobiography. That would make it a rather visceral piece of introspection if it were true.”

Locking eyes in a contemptuous stare, Phillip refuses to be cowed as Wallace inches fractionally closer, lowering his head as if delivering some sub-rosa exchange.

“You said a flawed man is an honest reflection of ourselves, was there something between Steerforth and Copperfield that...resonated with you?”

Squaring his shoulders, Phillip turns his head away and draws a steadying breath. “I don’t appreciate what you’re implying,” he replies with a temperate edge.

He tries to put the much-needed space back between them, but Wallace only follows; he does so with such a subtle and casual bearing that Phillip at any other time would be envious of such control, but at this moment it only makes their developing situation imperceptible to the blinkered masses around them.

Wallace laughs, a deep debonair chuckle that has no doubt swooned countless women in its time. Perhaps a man or two as well.  
  
“A bachelor theatre-boy drawn into an exhibition of debauchery by a mendacious, vainglorious cheat. I think we’re beyond implication, my lamb.”

Phillip grimaces at the untoward endearment and tries not to compare the man’s assessment to the similar words of vitriol his own father had spat at him at their last meeting. While Theodore Carlyle’s contempt had rang in Phillip's ears long after his disownment, they hadn’t brought a stricture to his chest like Wallace’s unctuous purr.

Wrenched from his thoughts, Phillip stiffens as unwelcome fingers graze his sleeve, and a deceptively light hand takes hold of his elbow. A terse jerk of his arm in attempt to dislodge Wallace only results in strong fingers digging into his joint, and Phillip bites back a hiss of pain. Once again Wallace leans in, and Phillip can almost feel the flicker of a serpentine tongue against his ear as he speaks.

“A man of your calibre deserves to be spread out on silk, not rolling in the dirt with a fraud who fancies himself of our caste. I’d wager you’d be quite something, writhing into my eiderdown.”

Phillip can count on one hand the number of times he’d considered responding with violence. He was more than accustomed to weathering the cutting disparagement of his peers, but to have Barnum slandered by an effete bigot stokes a fury in Phillip that leaves him trembling. The grip on his glass is so tight, a quiet part of his mind ponders if he can really feel the glass bracing itself to shatter. He lowers his eyes to glare hard at the floor, and Wallace must mistake it for a demure surrender as he hums in satisfaction and relaxes his grip.

Phillip jerks back in another attempt to break the hold, only to have the air knocked from his lungs as he collides with a solid chest behind him. He looks over his shoulder and barely refrains from sagging against Barnum in relief as the man pins Wallace with a glowering stare, offset by the subtle curve of a rapier smile.

“Phillip, I don’t believe you’ve introduced me to your acquaintance.”

With Barnum’s imposed presence, Phillip can feel Wallace’s receding, and the relief he feels at Barnum’s appearance can only be equated to that of a storm-beaten ship finally glimpsing the beacon of a lighthouse through the waning maelstrom.

He’s acutely aware of Barnum’s propinquity, his palm resting between Phillip’s shoulder blades and his body a light pressure against his side. It’s familiar, as Barnum had no sense for personal boundaries at the best of times, but the elder also understood the demand for space at these events. Which is why it feels almost intimate to have him flout formality so candidly, and Phillip can’t find it in him to care.

“Ah, you must be Mr Barnum,” Wallace greets, straightening and withdrawing his hand in a subtle movement. Wallace’s smile quickly loses its predatory edge for something more cordial, while Barnum’s responding grin shows a hint of teeth.

“The fraud, yes, that would be me.”

The corners of Phillip’s mouth twitch in barely suppressed amusement, then his stomach drops away as realisation hits. Barnum hadn’t just read his discomfort from across the room, but had heard all the licentious filth Wallace had said to him, and most certainly Phillip’s lack of rejoinder.

Wallace understands this too as his pretence drops with a blithe smirk that makes Phillip bristle with the arrogance of it. Even without his professional achievements - which Phillip bitterly conceded would never be given their rightful due - Barnum was easily a man deserving of respect by age and experience alone.

Barnum’s hand lands assuredly on Phillip’s shoulder and gives it a light squeeze, a discreet action that floods Phillip with an almost overwhelming surge of reassurance.

“It's truly something to meet a man of your profession, Mr Barnum, but I was interested in getting better acquainted with Phillip here. I’m sure you understand. He’s quite remarkable, achieving what he has, and I’m athirst to hear more.”

With a widening smirk his eyes shift to Phillip, who meets his gaze with grit. “I’ve heard he has rather commendable means of success.”

It's a slap to the face, and Phillip gapes at Wallace’s gall.

Phillip knew from his previous circles alone that gossip took grains of truth and deformed them, at times twisting them into something altogether unrecognisable. Luxuriating in their affluence often left the rich with little else to occupy themselves than spinning more audacious and scandalous rumours, but he didn’t expect those about himself to be so grossly _obscene._

He wonders how long it had taken. How long before his reputation as a drunkard and a public embarrassment had became that of a wanton whore. He wonders how many men he'd shaken hands with that evening, how many women had looked him in the eye as they laughed with him, and believed it.

It had been in their office one evening, not long into their new partnership and after a nightcap or two, that Barnum had easily admitted Phillip’s scandalous reputation preceded him. He didn’t know the specifics, didn’t know _why_ Phillip barely clung to the coattails of reputability, but Phillip always assumed Barnum had a theory or three about it. Yet despite his curiosity, Barnum had never asked, and so Phillip had never felt the need to tell him.

He now regrets his undue reticence, for who would have been more accepting of his flaws than a purveyor of the aberrant? Instead, all Phillip has to contest Wallace’s flagrant inferences is his word, and he can’t find it in him to speak.

The idle chatter of the surrounding people distorts into a fathomless hum as the cold rush of humiliation falls over him like a shroud. It's with a sickening hollowness that Phillip acknowledges he'd been little more than a point of ridicule the entire night.

With a subtle movement he tries to shrug off Barnum's hand, to save him from the same crippling allegations, but to Phillip's surprise Barnum firms his grip against it and stays fixed at his side.

Barnum’s eyes narrow, and Phillip can see him picking at the traps cunningly placed throughout Wallace’s comments.

“He is remarkable, and perhaps the most exceptional man I’ve ever had the good fortune of knowing. It is a privilege to have him as not only my business partner, but a dear friend as well.”

Phillip’s breath catches at the sincerity and _ferocity_ that underlies Barnum’s statement, and he can do little more than stare into his glass as warmth takes root in his stomach and creeps up towards his chest like unfurling, blossoming ivy.

“He has been nothing but an asset to our business, so I would advise you address him with the same respect and courtesy he has been patient enough to offer you, my good man.” Barnum’s parting words, despite their civility, bite like the invective they’re intended as.

Wallace’s lips curl back with the start of a snarl, and Phillip can only assume such umbrage is a response to the insolence being shown to him by a wretched street-born conman. In the blink of an eye the snarl twists into a repugnant sneer, and Wallace raises his glass in a mocking imitation of a toast. “Yes, I’m sure Mr Carlyle services your business _very well,_ and who am I to get between him and his…” his eyes dart between both men and Barnum’s possessive arm across Phillip’s back, _“superior.”_  

Barnum’s hand takes an almost painful hold of Phillip’s shoulder, and he expects the elder man to bite back about them being equals, _partners;_ righteous and reproachful in a way only Barnum can be. To his surprise, Barnum’s grip eases without a word, but remains a grounding weight that enables Phillip to keep his gaze on Wallace steady.

In the charged seconds that follow a pronounced feeling of trepidation awakes in Phillip’s chest - the same feeling that usually forebodes an imminent Barnum-worthy spectacle. It becomes an entirely founded concern when Phillip finally glances at the man and finds Barnum's smile to be something dangerously languid. His eyes are dark and salient, and that spectacle looms on the horizon like a brilliant, devastating storm.

When the tension thickens to a suffocating degree, Barnum’s hand drops from Phillip’s shoulder; the way his fingers drag down the back of his jacket leaves the whisper of a spectral heat against Phillip’s skin. Their arms brush as Barnum leans forward, and into the greatly reduced space between himself and Wallace he speaks in a low and minacious voice. “Let me give you some well-intentioned advice. In future, you should know a man’s penchant for discretion before you challenge him.”

Wallace’s eyes to widen a fraction at the enigmatic threat.

“You wouldn’t do anything so stupid,” he hisses, and it’s the first time Phillip's seen Wallace’s composure slip. Phillip looks immediately to Barnum, because whatever ill-thought scheme the man had concocted, he most definitely _would._

He’s barely ventured a wary “P.T...” before the ringmaster’s voice is assailing the grandiose hall, the drone of conversation and even the strings of the quartet swiftly quelled beneath it. 

 _“Mr Wallace._ I don’t know how your regular company conduct themselves, but I find your propositions to be indecent and frankly odious. I dare say you are among the wrong sort if you believe soliciting such _proclivities_ to be appropriate.”

The man’s voice resonates with an unapologetic, thunderous power. It reverberates through every marble column up to the ornate crown molding, and Phillip feels both at the center of the display and yet thankfully, _remarkably_ protected from the opprobrium of it as PT Barnum rears heads above Edward Wallace in a paroxysm of wrath. “I would expect a man of your standing to possess a modicum of propriety, rather than entertaining such sordid notions. If you will excuse us, I think any further dealings are best left here. _Good evening.”_

With a curt nod of his head Barnum turns on his heel and Phillip matches the manoeuvre in near perfect synchronicity. They march forward with their eyes fixed ahead, aware of the weight of the room’s attention on them, and the ensuing stillness is eerily reminiscent of a sculpture garden.

Phillip doesn’t dare to look back at Wallace to witness the aftermath of their display, but a morbid curiosity spurs a fleeting glance into the hauntingly still crowd. Phillip reckons he won’t soon forget the aghast expressions of the Winthrops and his parents before they’re lost behind the rows of nameless faces.

He doesn’t know how Barnum walks with such resolve while Phillip’s legs could crumple beneath him at any given moment, but he manages to follow the ringmaster’s lead out of the hall with only their footsteps filling the silence.

 

~*~*~

 

The brisk night air stings Phillip’s throat as he inhales a lungful, but for the first time in what feels like an eternity he can finally _breathe_ again. The way his hands shake, from shock and adrenaline, only gets brief consideration before he's following Barnum's resolute stride away from the house.

They say nothing as they walk; the renewed murmur of the home’s occupants and the candlelight at their backs growing fainter, the crunch of the gravel beneath their shoes taking precedence in the nightly quiet.

It’s only when they’re halfway down the winding drive that the extent of what has just transpired hits Phillip like a physical blow to the stomach and he stops in his tracks, pitching forward with his hand over his mouth.

That had happened. In public. _At the Winthrop’s annual gala._ In front of every aristocratic family within fifty miles of New York.

“Phillip?” Uncertainty softens Barnum’s voice, but it can’t mask the evident concern. Phillip glances up to see that Barnum has stopped only a step ahead of him, but it’s the contrite twist to the man’s troubled expression that finally does him in. Phillip’s shoulders tremble and the first bubble of laughter escapes in an inelegant snort, quickly followed by raucous laughter.

Barnum’s eyebrows knit together in bewilderment, perhaps concerned Phillip had at last been pushed too far, before timorous realisation dawns. His grin slowly but surely grows until it’s broad and brilliant, reflecting the same levity back at Phillip.

All Phillip can get out in between huffs of laughter is a gleeful “His _face,_ PT, you absolute _devil.”_

Barnum’s laughter rings out with Phillip’s own, deep and rich and lost to the dark expanse of the estate’s grounds. He throws his arm around Phillip’s shoulder as the younger man picks up their earlier pace, and Phillip’s chest only expands further with joy as they traverse their way down the country road, back towards town with their laughter echoing behind them long after they'd regained some semblance of composure.

\---

“You managed to not only expose Wallace as a complete scut, but implied an - entirely false, I may add - interest in dealing with the circus. His social declension may even surpass my own in grandeur.” He’s gratified when Barnum, never breaking his stride, uses the arm already slung around Phillip’s shoulders to pull him into a clumsy one-armed embrace against his side. His shoulder bumps into Phineas’ ribs, but the ringmaster doesn’t seem to mind.

“If there’s one thing you should expect from a showman, Phillip, it’s a perfectly orchestrated, entirely unscrupulous spectacle.” The man’s smile is practically wolfish as he beams down at him, wholly prideful of his barbarous decimation of one Edward Wallace, and Phillip can only tip his hat to Barnum in a mocking and yet wholly genuine gesture of appreciation.

Barnum’s arm drops from around Phillip after a few more steps, and the early fall evening feels more inclement for it. It seems only appropriate to put a few more inches of space between them as they walk, but the distance is suddenly cavernous compared to the closeness of before.

After minutes of silence, Phillip glances at Barnum who strolls insouciantly along beside him, eyes fixed skyward on the swathe of indigo and stars. He supposes the silence should be comfortable; he longs for it to be so, but instead his mind roils like a turbulent sea, and his stomach doesn’t fare much better.

“PT...” Despite his apprehension, he breaks the peaceful ambience of the wind in the trees and the leaves crunching beneath their shoes. “Those things. I mean….what Wallace was saying...” He blows out a breath, able to _feel_ Barnum’s intent gaze resting on him. He can easily picture the man’s expression; eyes enquiring but patient, forehead more deeply creased, the corners of his lips curved with the start of a curious smile. “His insinuations; they’re false,” he assures the man firmly, his attention fixated on the road. “I don’t want you to think that I would-”

“Phillip.”

Phillip’s mouth snaps shut, and even though he knows Barnum is trying to meet his eye, he can’t find the courage in himself to look back. The breeze feels more biting against the renewed heat of his cheeks, and he chastises himself for being a coward as he stares resolutely down at his shoes.

“Phillip.”

Phillip halts when Barnum’s voice sounds from behind him, puzzled as to why the man has stopped. Casting an apprehensive glance at the road ahead and seeing nothing amiss, Phillip turns back only to come nose to chest with Barnum. He has no choice but to meet the man’s eye as he cranes his head back to look at him properly, lest he have this uncomfortable conversation with Barnum’s clavicle. One of these days he would figure out how the man managed to move in such atypical silence when the moment suited him.

Barnum’s expression is unusually sober, but fond.

“Even if they were true-"

“But they’re-“

“I believe you,” Barnum interrupts, and holds up a placating hand, his tone agonisingly patient. “Irregardless, I don’t think any less of you either way.”

Phillip stands in silence, open-mouthed but at a loss for words. Would there ever come a day this man wouldn’t throw him so completely? Phillip swallows and smiles meekly. The words are accepting, freeing even - so unequivocally forgiving of everything Phillip had been implicated of, and everything he could still be, sequestered away under a guise of respectability - and yet still his chest feels bound and compressed by an incorporeal rope.

“O-of course,” he replies, clearing his throat as the words come out cracked. They still stand inexplicably close, so much so that even with only the accentuation of the moonlight Phillip can make out the gentle age-worn creases around Phineas’ eyes, the curve of his aquiline nose, and the sharp bow of his full, inviting lips.

Breath catching, Phillip’s eyes snap back up to Barnum’s.

Unwilling to contemplate the ramifications of Barnum’s newly pensive stare, Phillip steps back and gestures lamely to their path. “We should continue, it’s still a long walk back to town.” 

He sets off down the road at a brisk pace, only assuming Barnum would still follow.

“So…” Barnum’s voice pipes up from beside him, drawing that damned lariat tighter. “I saw the ventriloquist near Central Park, entertaining children.” The tension in Phillip’s chest loosens with a rush of breath, and he finds himself smiling minutely.

“You never did describe his no doubt horrific dummy…”

 

~*~*~

 

They’ve exhausted conversation about the ventriloquist, his dummy, and the mischief one could get up to with such a skill by the time they’re treading familiar streets, their noses pink and hands tucked under their arms to stave off the cold.

Despite the social faux pas, they’d elected to wear their gloves to retain what warmth they could. It was a coveted hope they would still in a presentable, or at least salvageable, condition by the time Phillip got home so he wouldn’t have to concern himself with replacing them.

“What time is your last train?” Phillip asks to fill the lull, stifling a smile as Barnum grumbles whilst fishing his timepiece from his pocket, numb fingers fumbling with the latch.

“Fourteen minutes ago,” he replies, blowing out a breath. He snaps the pocket watch shut and tucks it away again, hands burrowing back into the warmth of his armpits. “I could head to the circus, I suppose. Nothing like a jumpstart on tomorrow.”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Phillip retorts, pinning the man with a stern glower; it was often the only suitable reaction to the ringmaster’s more injudicious ideas, and was an expression resoundingly - although fondly - mocked by the performers for its near-constant presence around the circus. “I have a perfectly serviceable divan you’re welcome to…” his offer tapers, recalling the development of the evening and his lapse of self on their walk back, where Barnum’s immediacy and their solitude had corrupted his good sense, if only for a moment. “If that would be suitable, of course,” he amends, turning the presumptuous command into an offer more easily refused.

Barnum’s boisterous “Fantastic!” takes Phillip by surprise; at the very least he’d anticipated, were Barnum to accept the offer, a cursory _‘well I wouldn’t want to impose’,_ to which he’d modestly counter with an ingrained, regurgitated script. As had come to be his new norm, Phillip finds pleasure in Barnum’s divergence from the expected.

The lack of hesitation to be in Phillip’s continued company is also more reassuring in that moment than Barnum could ever possibly know.

With a murmured _‘very well’,_ Phillip takes the next left and Barnum easily keeps time as they find their way to a tree-lined boulevard. Barnum lets out an appreciative noise as they mount the stone steps to the communal door, their shoes echoing in the stairwell on their climb to the third floor. Phillip lets them into the spacious apartment and Barnum admires the sparsely yet elegantly decorated home as he shrugs off his tailcoat and pockets his gloves. It was quite soundly a bachelor’s pad.

“I’ll get the fire going,” Phillip says as he bypasses Barnum on his way to the lounge.

Kneeling at the grate, he can feel the weight of Barnum’s gaze on him from the doorway, watching him blow on the catching kindling that soon grows into a crackling fire - the heat already chasing the chill from his fingers. Sitting back on his heels, Phillip brushes the soot from his hands and startles when Barnum hangs the kettle on the hook above the flames with a metallic clang. He looks up to see Barnum standing over him, an easy curve to his lips.

“I thought tea would help warm us up.”

It’s considerate and appreciated, but all Phillip can register with rampant embarrassment is their position. He pushes himself to his feet with such haste he stumbles with a rush of vertigo, and Barnum’s hand comes to grip just above his elbow with surprising strength to steady him. Phillip’s heart flinches, and the fibrous rope returns, pricking at this throat and trapping his breath like a noose around his neck.

He desperately wishes for the ironclad command he’d had over his damned emotions at the start of the evening, but the night’s events had seemingly stripped away his resolve as well as his sense. Now the only thing grounding him was the grip on his arm and the concerned furrow to Barnum’s brow.

“Phil-”

“Tea is a fantastic idea,” he cuts in, backing up several steps to free his arm; Barnum, with some reluctance, lets him go. A beat of stillness follows, both men watching each other for a timid, unfathomed moment, until Phillip snaps his head away and retreats to the kitchen.

Setting down two cups, Phillip undoes his bowtie so it hangs loose around his neck and takes to drumming his fingers on the kitchen counter.

 _“You’re acting like a fool,”_ he half groans half hisses at himself, despondency in every syllable. He’d never shied from Barnum before, never let his ill-fated inclinations be so transparent.

But then it had never been under the spotlight.

Barnum had never had reason to even credit him in such a way, until those rumours had come like desecrating waves, unearthing his secrets from the dirt and dragging them to the surface.

Did Barnum really believe the rumours were just that?

He knew Barnum would not turn him away should he march back through to the other room and declare the truth. That yes, Wallace was right. _They were all right._ He would prefer to lie with a man. He did harbour such sordid desires.

But would Barnum still look at him as he did now? Would he still see Phillip as his partner and friend, or just a man more suited to his place among the outcasts than Barnum had initially thought? Phillip’s mouth tastes like cotton, and he doesn’t want to know the answer.

The shrill whistle of the kettle cuts through the quiet, signalling the end of his reprieve. Still without a solution, Phillip slowly picks up the cups, one after the other, and goes to face the waiting ringmaster.

\---

Back in the living room he finds Barnum has moved to the divan, sitting to one side and angled towards the vacant spot beside him. He looks up as Phillip enters, the steaming kettle dangling from his loose grip, and waits expectantly until Phillip silently sinks into the space left for him.

Placing the two cups on the coffee table with care, Phillip watches the water rise and steep as Barnum pours their tea, the tendrils of steam rising in a delicate spiral. He waits nervously as Barnum pauses, then tears his gaze away from his shallow distraction as Barnum unexpectedly stands. Tension roots him in place as his eyes follow the man, and he feels foolish when Barnum returns the kettle to the mantelpiece, this time on a hook away from the fire.

Only, Barnum doesn’t immediately rejoin him. He remains standing and seemingly lost in thought, the firelight playing across his face while shadows deepened the lines of age and laughter around his eyes and mouth.

Phillip feels a sliver of affection amidst the dread.

“You were talking to him for a long time,” Barnum says finally, directing it to the fire although Phillip knows it’s meant for him. “I would check on you now and then, just to make sure everything was going smoothly.”  
  
_To make sure you were ok,_ Phillip understands. And although he should probably be more piqued by the man’s coddling than he is - he was no dilettante after all - it was reassuring to know he was never without Barnum’s support. As he had proved tonight.

Phillip bows his head, lips softening with a smile. Then it falters. He remembers looking for Barnum, remembers trying to catch his eye, and remembers Barnum being turned away. In all that time, while Wallace had closed the distance between them, stood over him, taken a hold of Phillip and subjected him to his covetous desires, had Barnum really witnessed it and let it unfold? Or had he not looked out for Phillip as he had claimed?

He looks up at Barnum with the question on his tongue, but Barnum is already watching him and Phillip can’t get the words out. It turns out he doesn’t need to, because Barnum’s brow knits with what Phillip can only read as penitence before he turns back to the fire.

“It looked like you’d struck up quite the rapport, so… I stopped checking. I _made_ myself stop checking.”

Phillip doesn’t understand.

“It was childish,” Barnum adds in a dark mutter, “... and it meant I left you in that situation.”  
  
“You’re not accountable for me, PT. I shouldn’t need you to hold my hand through every unsavoury conversation I find myself in. I can fight my own corner.”

“But you shouldn’t have to. Not when I’m there. And I’m not saying you’re not capable,” Barnum earnestly insists, “but we’re partners, Phillip, and we’re responsible for each other.”

Phillip stares at the man, chest tightening in an oddly soothing way as the weight and vehemence of Barnum’s words washes over them and they sink into contemplation.

Barnum’s admission turns over in his mind, the curious guilt and criticism gnawing at him. Something refuses to click into place, and he wonders if it’s something he doesn’t dare consider.

“Phil.”

Phillip’s eyes flit up to the ringmaster as he approaches the divan and sits back down beside him. Out the corner of his eye he can see Barnum running his thumb across his mouth, a nervous habit he’d only witnessed on a few occasions, before turning towards him.

“Phil,” Barnum says again, and waits expectantly until Phillip finally relents and faces him. The elder’s face is open and sincere, alleviating some of Phillip’s tension. “I need you to trust me.”

The words knot Phillip’s stomach and his breath catches when the unmistakable warmth of Barnum’s palm cups his jaw, just beneath his ear. “And please don’t think badly of me if I’ve misunderstood,” he murmurs, regarding Phillip with hooded honey-whiskey eyes. Phillip can’t find it in him to respond as Barnum leans in and presses firm, tender lips against his own.

Phillip responds in a heartbeat, surprising Barnum with his voracity as he opens his mouth and deepens the kiss. The vibrations of an amused chuckle make his lips tingle pleasantly, and he can feel Barnum smiling. His eyes snap open when the man starts to pull away, locking with Barnum’s which glint with mirth and an impending smart comment. 

Phillip doesn’t give him the chance. Hands coming to rest on the ringmaster’s neck, he pulls him back in and sighs when Barnum folds to his demand without any fight at all. He sinks back into the kiss with a pleased groan and Phillip triumphantly lavishes his mouth. 

Pleasure simmers across his skin in a cascading wave as Barnum’s tongue runs across his lower lip, and Phillip opens his mouth in invitation. Barnum takes the opportunity and their tongues boldly writhe together before venturing further. Their lips meet with eager sounds and their noses bump as they tilt their heads to draw the other closer. 

“PT,” Phillip pants as they part. Barnum’s lips drop to Phillip’s neck without pause. He tips Phillip’s head back with an efficient press of his thumb to the underside of his jaw and bares the unblemished arch of his throat, quickly besieging the canvas with loud, feverish kisses. Phillip’s heated murmurs of encouragement get swallowed by the room, and then by Barnum’s mouth as he reclaims Phillip’s in another hungry kiss. 

Barnum’s pulse jumps beneath his palm, and Phillip presses his hand more heavily against it. The resulting hum of approval fills their mouths, and Phillip follows the tantalising sound down Barnum’s chest until his fingers curl into the lapels of Barnum’s suit.

“Christ, Phil,” Barnum mutters gruffly, but with no lack of appreciation as the younger’s tongue flicks ardently across his lips. He groans quietly, his hot quivering breaths rushing against Phillip’s flushed lips as Barnum brings their foreheads together. His hand cradles the back of Phillip’s neck to keep him in place, though Phillip has little inclination to go anywhere. 

As they catch their breath and let their passion simmer, Phillip feels himself smiling. Their brushing noses, the scent of champagne on Barnum’s breath, and the visceral sparks between them sends a positively giddy rush through him that fill him completely. It warms every nook and crevice inside him, chasing the doubt and disquiet from his bones.

Again he opens his eyes to find Barnum already watching him, eyes dark but achingly gentle, his expression soft with relief. Phillip feels it too, the swell of relief in his breast and the immensity of what they had just revealed to each other, confirmed, _shared_.

“Would you prefer my bed for the evening?” Phillip asks quietly.

Barnum draws back, separating them for the first time in countless minutes. His hand remains a comfortable pressure at his nape, perhaps to reassure Phillip as he clears the roughness from his throat and carefully chooses his next words.

“Phillip, we don’t have to move so quickly. As happy as I am to have you, and sakes I am so happy to finally have you, I don’t want you to think I have these expectations of you. There’s no rush, nothing for you to prove...” he wanes, thumb rubbing pleasurably at a soft spot behind Phillip’s ear.  

Phillip bites back his laughter, amused, but touched regardless by the man’s sentimentality. “I was just offering you the other half of my bed. But if you would prefer to court me like a true and modest puritan, there is always the divan.” Phillip’s eyebrows arch in question as he flashes an impish grin.

Looking decidedly sheepish, Barnum ducks his head. “Well, a little clarification goes a long way,” he grumbles good-naturedly, drawing Phillip to his chest to kiss away the teasing smile. Phillip’s huff of laughter is sweet against his lips.

Like before, Phillip tilts his head as Barnum’s lavish attention falls to his neck. His eyelids flutter at the warm press of Barnum’s lips, slow and measured across his skin. He nuzzles into Barnum’s shoulder, breathing long and deep, and revels in the sensation. Turning his head to return the indolent affection, he presses his lips to just below the man’s ear.

“Come on,” Phillip entices, interlocking their fingers and rising from the divan to lead Phineas to the bedroom. Their tea cups, untouched and forgotten, are left to grow cold on the table.

Phillip’s well-sized bed sits against the back wall of the bedroom, and Barnum’s glee reflects in his expression when he takes in the carelessly rumpled covers, still tossed to one side where the man had evidently surfaced that morning. His pillow even harbours a depression from the night before.

He counters Barnum’s cheeky grin with an unapologetic quirk of his brow, proceeding to remove his shoes and slip his unknotted bowtie from his neck without comment.

Barnum chuckles at the obstinate silence as he does the same, eventually dropping onto his side of the bed in his trousers and undershirt, sinking into the plush covers with an appreciative sigh.

“Don’t get comfortable yet,” Phillip chides as he adjusts the cuffs of his nightshirt. Barnum watches in bemusement as Phillip approaches the other side of the bed and kneels down to peer under it.

“What are you doing?” Barnum queries.

“I’m sure I had my bundling board under here somewhere,” Phillip responds seriously. Barnum groans and Phillip’s deadpan expression wavers.

“Get up here, you little-”

Barnum rolls over the bed and drags Phillip forcibly up onto it. “But what about my chastity bag?” Phillip protests, before his composure cracks completely. He laughs unabashed as the older man jostles him into a bear hug with a put-upon sigh, fighting to tamp down his own smile.

He graciously lets Phillip have his trice of mirth at his expense, then brings him back down with a tactful and resounding bump.

“I’m sure the circus would love to hear about your chastity bag,” Barnum hums, his smile on the edge of a smirk. Phillip’s tapering laughter, now little more than flushed cheeks and bouts of sniggering, stops completely; he eyes Barnum as if gauging the legitimacy of his threat.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he ventures.

Barnum’s eyebrows arch in challenge. “You have _quite_ the reputation around the circus, darling, a chastity bag would hardly be the most unbelievable addition to the rumours,” the elder grins.

The way his chest alights at the endearment is overcast by the cutting sting of malaise, and Phillip can’t help the flinch that Barnum somehow detects even in the dim light of the bedroom. Maybe he’d felt it.

With a certain loathing, Phillip rues how his own sensitivity chastens Barnum’s joyous demeanour and brings the mood tumbling down.

“Christ, Phil, I’m sorry, that was so thoughtless of me-”  
  
“No,” Phillip interjects, perhaps too sharply. “Don’t apologise, not for that. You don’t mean it like they do. Our _friends_ don’t mean it like they do. You don’t spread callous diatribe for entertainment, or believe your privilege permits such _vile_ -” 

Barnum hastily shushes him, tightening his embrace around Phillip and carding his fingers through his hair as if he were comforting a child. Or maybe this was just how Barnum knew how to comfort - enveloping him in the safety of his arms and murmuring reassurances into his temple.

It’s only when he’s sucking in a ragged breath that Phillip realises his tumultuous emotions from the evening’s events had overwhelmed the small nook in his chest where he’d tried to conceal them. He’d hoped for solitude - solitude and time to build his nerve. Barnum shouldn’t have to see him quail in the wake of his own damn insecurities, but, at the same time, he’s happy to have the man there.

“... hey… Phil.” A small shake has Phillip coming back to the present, to Barnum’s fingers still threading through his hair with his chest rising and falling beneath Phillip’s cheek. His position, intertwined with this man, something that had seemed impossible outside of his most illicit fantasies, is a remarkable comfort, and enough to allay some of Phillip’s turmoil. It makes it possible for Phillip to tilt his head back to look up at Barnum and meet his attentive gaze. 

“Their lies and opinions do not reflect the man I know. Did you think I was lying when I said what I did to Wilford?”  
  
“Wallace,” Phillip instinctively corrects. Barnum’s eyes crease at the edges with his smile, awaiting an answer. “... you were rather liberal with your senti-”  
  
_“Phillip.”_  
  
He sighs and relents, “No.”

“I’m sorry, and I’m _angry_ that you had to endure their disrespect.” Barnum’s tone softens. “But you’re not the scandal they want you to be.”

The tension pinching Phillip’s brows together eases, but he huffs lightly, unable to curb the derision that fuels it. “Aren’t I?” he challenges, almost humoured that he has to contest the point while lying with Barnum in an embrace meant to be reserved for a man’s beautiful, devoted, _female_ partner.

Perhaps the irony does strike Barnum, because it’s the only explanation Phillip can fathom as to why the man is suddenly beaming at him and vibrating with suppressed laughter.

“What-”

Barnum kisses him soundly, and Phillip’s question is quickly forgotten as he presses back into the kiss with a satisfied hum, their lips meeting and parting with heated, amative sounds. A bite to his plump lower lip has Phillip shuddering in pleasure against Barnum’s chest, and a flash of heat warms him to his fingertips as he buries them into Barnum’s tousled hair to steal more fervent kisses.

“You most certainly are not,” Barnum affirms when they separate at last with a blissful sigh, eyes twinkling.

“You’re an absolute devil,” Phillip mutters breathlessly, echoing his sentiment from earlier that evening with a softer but no less fond inflection. His hand comes to rest on Barnum’s neck, the action surprisingly tentative in the face of their very recent affections. Fingers playing with the fine hairs at Barnum’s nape, they glide inquisitively up to his face, fingertips tracing the curve of Barnum’s cheek with an almost disbelieving reverence.

Barnum’s lips twitch and curl into a smile beneath the pad of Phillip’s thumb.

He slowly takes a hold of Phillip’s wrist - fingers surrounding him in a firm but gentle grasp - and presses a chaste, feather-light kiss to his open palm. Phillip’s eyes widen at the delicacy of the gesture, and he has to look away with the front of adjusting his position lest the man see just how affected he is by it.

In spite of his efforts, he can still feel the deep rumble of Barnum’s chuckle against his ear, and although it makes his cheeks flush with an indiscernible rosiness, Barnum’s steady, rhythmic caress along his arm soothes any embarrassment.

When he’d started the evening - with he and Barnum as friends, business partners, and destined for little more - he’d never dared to even fantasise that come the crest of midnight he would be curled in an embrace with the man of his most condemnable desires, feeling liberated of every fear and insecurity that had weighed him down.  
  
Without lifting his head from Barnum’s chest, Phillip looks up and meets the tired, contented gaze of Barnum looking back. The depth of compassion Phillip perceives in Barnum’s eyes reminds Phillip of the rope that had steadily bound him through the night, and perhaps through all the time he had known Barnum without him realising.

In that moment he imagines the end of the rope, no longer frayed, but smooth and firmly braided, held tight in Barnum’s grasp. Moored securely over Barnum’s shoulders and around his waist, hitched between each rib and tethered around his unflinching heart, so steadfast it could anchor the largest cargo ship and ensure Phillip isn't left adrift.  Binding them surely together, so to never be out of reach.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments greatly appreciated <33


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